after Lachlan Brown
So, shiftless summer’s advance stills everything.
It’s the new normal. The effect of the heat the wind twists through
is like Link Wray’s slow drag of chords with his right
right across ‘Rumble’, only played through an amplified hairdryer.
Every day now, something ends, and,
probably, it always did. I’m saying
nothing new. The train’s bow cuts through hills
of time-rounded farmlets, above and then beside the grey and crimped ocean.
The surfaces are alight, caught on with slowest fire,
burning through the magpied cows patched out there like a QR code,
splotching the slick-bright wetlands, the hard glisten there on each surface.
Things gather next to other things, a series of uselessly small mouths.
Greg McLaren lives in the Blue Mountains of NSW. His recent books include Windfall and Australian Ravens, both with Puncher & Wattmann.
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